


A Contract in Crimson

by orphan_account



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Fantasy AU, Gen, I have no idea where this came from, I'm Sorry, Like...Game of Thrones AU almost, Mentions of Past Conductor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 03:03:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the King's Right Hand dies, her murderer must take her place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Contract in Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for my RP account, theserpentinecrescendo on tumblr, but I guess I just really liked it? I have absolutely no idea where this came from besides watching both seasons of Game of Thrones back to back.

He knew well what they said of him behind his back. He was the Viper, the Sorcerer, the man with eyes of death, the Lord who slept with Dragons.

And above all, he was the murderer, the Queenkiller, the man who in a land of blood-rights assassinated the rightful Lady of the Northern Kingdom in cold blood, killed Lady Kiyora Oshiro of Sheerwind, First of her Name, Warden and Protector of the North Kingdom, Right Hand of the King, Queen of the Frostspire and the Valley of Fire.

Yet here he stands at the foot of the King, claiming her position and her throne, black hood raised in a shroud, bowing in his black leathers and white linen, offset by the belt of daggers and scalemaille, double-edged Fang on his hip looking oh-so out of place (but he had taken his throne with blood and poison, and the shortsword never left his side, for the man who lays with dragons is the man who never sleeps while one may slit his throat.)

And he bows his head, and he feels the violet eyes upon him.

The King dressed himself in the purest whites of finest silks, a compliment to the pallidity of his skin and the silver of his hair. The man is a white phantom, a sliver of a thing as He descends marble steps. He looks to be made of porcelain, a doll of a monarch with soft curves and effeminate beauty from generations of flawless breeding.

He is the epitome of beauty, and in his flowing robes and ivory crown, He is angelic by backlight.

A crosswind flutters his sleeves, and the banners behind him whip in the breeze; the sigil of Royalty, an alabaster dragon, wings spread in the night. And it’s his own that back the hall, the golden hydra in a field of blood.

He swears even the serpents on his banners tremble at the sound of the High King’s voice.

It’s a boy’s voice, young and clear, proud and unrelenting as the wind.

“Tell me what has become of her.”

Unseen eyes peer up through the shadows of a hood. “Poison, Your Grace.”

A smile at that. “Posion for her sharp tongue. Fitting. Tell me, do you know who I am?”

 _What is this, a test?_ is the bitter thought in the usurper’s mind, yet he replies in turn: “Lord Yoshiya Kiriyu the Exalted, First of His Name, High King of the Four Kingdoms, Guardian of the Realm, and the last of the Highborn.”

“Then you know what you have bought into.” The boy’s voice is gone, and here is a higher pitched man’s, tone as icy as the tip of the Frostspire. “You have signed a contract in her blood.”

There is a silence as the words sink into his skin.

“Am I to know the name of my most trusted?” His words are a mockery. The usurper opens his lips, and the King spits fire. “Full title, if you will.”

“Magister Megumi Kitaniji, Warden of the Wastes, Overseer of the Jagged Crown, and Lord Ambassador to the Dragonlings.”

“A murderer who rules over sands and mountain. Tell me, how do you expect the bastard son of a man and a dragonling to rule at the right hand of a king?”

The hood is down- it’s unsure how, perhaps the legends are true, that those of the noble bloodline are blessed with extraordinary psychic powers, perhaps it merely fell as he lifted his head.

Either way, they’re visible now, the golden, scaled ridges beneath pools of fire orange, unmarred by pupils and uninterrupted by the whites of the eye. Tips of crimson protrude from his skin, tips of scale that begin at his brows and curl around his eyes like a mask, stopping at those ridges that frame the sockets of his skull, stopping where the ebony of his hair begins.

And the boy-king's voice is strong and sharp. "Kneel."

What choice had he but to oblige?

"And rise now, Magister Kitaniji, Warden and Protector of the North Kingdom and the Wastes, King of the Frostspire and the Valley of Fire, Overseer of the Jagged Crown, Lord Ambassador to the Dragonlings, and Right Hand of the King."

Not another word is spoken, only a silent understanding that there will never be the same closeness, never the same level of equality as that shared by the man before him and the woman he killed.

High in the rafters of the Great White Hall, a smile breaks on an all-knowing face, and The Angel of the Keep, He Who Rules Over the King, the Warden of the Sky, Lord Ambassador to those Most High Exalted, welcomes a new age in silent watching.


End file.
